


Abracadabra

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe, Magic, Poison, Whump, Witches, alchemist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's safe to assume that Hansel and Gretel only trust each other, and that next to no-one trusts alchemists. But when Gretel's only hope of helping Hansel is to go to an alchemist, there's no hesitation. The villagers they just helped, on the other hand, are not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abracadabra

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so I thought I'd put Hansel into a dire situation and throw in some feels around that (namely Gretel's). Seeing as I've written this before the release of the movie (47 days!) I'm fairly sure it's not canon, and the whole idea of alchemists is purely something I threw in there to add some spice. Sort-of linked to my other Hansel and Gretel piece, but can be read as stand-alone as well. Like this, read the other, maybe...

In a world where witches haunted the dreams of children and danced wildly in the un-trodden parts of the land, almost any form of protection was welcomed and tried – _almost_ any. After all, magic was not something easily fended off, and those who followed the mantra of ‘fight fire with fire’ were frowned upon; these alchemists, though few and far between, didn’t receive the greatest hospitality, regardless of their potential at defeating a witch. It was why Hansel and Gretel first found themselves in some sort of demand – hunters were more trustworthy than alchemists, even if they were more likely to die. 

So when in one village Gretel directly asked for an alchemist, their reputation was nearly destroyed quicker than you could say gingerbread.

***

“Let me see.”

Leaning heavily against a snow-dusted tree, breath misting in the air in front of him, Hansel tugged up the hem of his shirt, allowing his sister access to the cut on his side. Inspecting it closely, she deduced it wasn’t anything major. It looked shallow and wasn’t any wider than her outstretched hand, so it would probably heal quickly enough with some stitches and rest. Wrapping a cloth round her hand to press against the blood, Gretel groaned inwardly. The words ‘Hansel’ and ‘rest’ were about as likely to appear in the same sentence as a duck was to spontaneously combust on a lake. 

“Well?” her brother hissed as she applied the pressure.

“It’s nothing serious. I’ll stitch it up when we get back to the inn, then you’ll have to stay put for a few days.” He snapped his head round at that, protest already forming, but she’d anticipated it and spoke first: “If you want it to heal quickly, you’ll listen to me for once and actually rest.”

Like she thought, her advice was met with a sulky scowl and several choice words (muttered, but Gretel had heard them so frequently she even knew what order he’d say them in) before the excuses started. “We don’t have the money.”

“I’ll work instead.”

“If we waste time like this –”

“You’ll do more good without a fresh wound for them to take advantage of.”

“The beds are uncomfortable!”

She raised an eyebrow. “So sleep on the floor.”

Finally realising she wasn’t budging, Hansel growled into the tree trunk. “Well this is great!”

“Stop whining,” Gretel scolded, taking another rag out to wrap around his torso. “It could be worse.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah? How so?”

Tying the makeshift bandage off harder than necessary, she looked at him blankly. “Aside from the fact that she didn’t damage that precious coat of yours, you could have lost a limb.”

A beat later and her brother rolled his eyes. “Fine, okay, I’ll – I’ll let it heal before we move on. Happy?”

Gretel smirked, knowing that Hansel had been unable to say the word ‘rest’. “Yes,” she answered, bending down to pick up their weapons. Handing his shotgun over, she asked, “Can you walk?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing off from the tree and stumbling the first two steps. Keeping his right hand pressed to the wound, he took back the gun, and the two of them began ambling back to the village.

The journey back was silent, each of them content to leave the other to their thoughts. It had become something of a habit between the siblings, who found that there was very little to say after a successful hunt: one dead witch, a few rescued children, the usual injuries, undamaged weapons, and a happy village waiting for their return. Oh, Gretel could have reprimanded Hansel for allowing himself to get under the bitch’s claws, but what good would that do? He knew his mistake, and she knew he wouldn’t let it happen again. That was why people misunderstood their silences; they didn’t think the siblings were close, that they were cold to each other and unloving. It was entirely the opposite.

Five minutes of walking later, Gretel noticed something in the corner of her eye – or rather, a lack of something. Hansel wasn’t by her side. She had been keeping pace with him until he’d settled into the pain, then her thoughts had taken her attention (thoughts of going home rather than to another dingy inn), but now he wasn’t where she expected him to be. In fact, she had to look over her shoulder before he entered her vision again, and Gretel frowned. “Hansel?”

Her brother had an odd expression on his face. The shotgun was still held loosely in one hand, but he was focused on the other one, the hand that had been pressed against the bandage. Some of the blood had seeped through to stain his fingerless glove, and at first Gretel assumed that was what he was concerned about; but as she approached she noticed the shimmer of sweat on his neck and face, the weight to his breaths which came shorter than she liked. Their eyes met, conveying one clear message: something’s wrong.

“How do you feel?” Gretel asked sharply, pulling the soaked cloth down to get a better look.

Hansel swallowed thickly. “Hot, nauseous, tired…” He shuddered, gripping the shotgun tighter as his sister’s fingers stretched the wound. “It shouldn’t be bleeding that much.” His words sounded slurred to his own ears – did they sound the same to Gretel?

Letting some of his blood pool in her palm, Gretel’s eyes widened and she cursed. “Can you keep moving?” she asked, quickly redressing the cut and pausing when he staggered backwards under her urgency.

“What is it?” he asked instead, blinking as his vision turned fuzzy for a second. He thought he already knew, but with things quickly becoming hazy he wanted to hear confirmation of it first.

“There’s a green tint to your blood. It is coming out too fast, and too thin as well.” Gretel frowned. “We need help.”

“Poison…” She may not have said it directly, but it was an unspoken rule that they didn’t seek help unless the situation was beyond their skill. Witch’s poison was one of those situations.

Hansel felt her grip his arm tightly, pulling his attention back to her. “We’re close to the village. How quickly can you move?”

“I can run,” he said, then reconsidered his words. “Jog.”

She nodded. “Keep up as best you can,” she said, then moved off. 

Keeping his eyes fixed on her back, Hansel slowly started to jog after her, grimacing through the pain and the feverish haze invading his mind. All he had to do was follow Gretel. A stray thought made him realise the familiarity of their positions – twelve years ago, she had been the one following him, struggling to keep up as tiredness and exhaustion bound her younger limbs. Feeling his chest burn with the effort of breathing, Hansel suddenly empathised with her, and began to think that maybe Gretel was stronger than he believed. After all, she had kept up with him until he had collapsed all those years ago, and that was on top of the fact that she had nearly starved in that cottage. Now he was struggling to stay upright from a small cut and a brisk jog – until he reminded himself that he’d been poisoned, making the comparison somewhat unfair. 

Hansel felt his boot clip a tree root hidden in the snow, and it was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling underneath him. Regaining his footing, he pressed his hand to his side again, breath hitching at the sharp jolt of pain, and kept running. His breathing sounded raspy and echoed in his ears, his vision blurring again until Gretel was just a dark smear ahead of him. He nearly ran into a tree. His boots felt heavy. His shirt was sticking to his back. He found it hard to move in the leather coat. His fingers loosened around his gun again, and dipping his head he wondered if he could run with his eyes closed…

Something closed around his wrist firmly. Startled, he jerked his head up, grip re-tightening round the shotgun. Gretel was looking at him, worry pulling her eyebrows inwards and the corners of her mouth down. Tugging at his wrist, she encouraged him onwards, and Hansel found the will to keep up with her like she had with him. He thought she said something, perhaps about the village, and vaguely registered that they had reached the edge of the tree line, the snow underneath his feet root-free and smooth. He shivered as the wind threw itself unhindered at his sweaty skin, closed his eyes and followed his sister’s pull instinctually. He trusted Gretel not to lead him astray.

***

It didn’t surprise her that the whole village was gathered in the central courtyard, nor that they began to cheer when they finally saw them approaching. Normally, this would have been the point where she exchanged grins with Hansel, revelling in the gratitude of the people and the joy of the children they’d saved, then they’d be practically forced into the pub and made to endure the celebrations until everyone was too drunk to notice them leave. Temporarily wiping the memories of such nights, Gretel pulled her brother forward, her anger flaring as she realised they hadn’t seen what state he was in.

“The hunters return victorious!” the mayor cried, silencing the crowd as he beamed at the siblings. “Thanks to you, our children have been returned safe and sound, and a great threat has been eliminated from our lives!”

“We need your help,” Gretel said, finally stopping in front of him and forgoing pleasantries. The mayor – Freudenthal? – seemed to miss the edge to her tone.

“Certainly, certainly!” he exclaimed, still smiling. “What is it you require? Fresh clothes, food, a reward –”

“I need an alchemist.”

That wiped the grin off his face. Freudenthal stared at her, eyes wide, as a collective gasp swept around the circle of people around them. He took a step away from her, as if she was contagious, and frowned deeply. “Why do you request that?”

“Because my brother is sick,” she snapped, “and I know one lives here: Joachim Özil – now where is he?”

But the mayor was shaking his head. “No. We can direct you to the town where we receive our medicine from, but we’ll not give you the alchemist. He is trouble, and does not socialise with us anyway.”

“No, we don’t have time!” she growled, letting go of Hansel’s wrist and stepping up into the mayor’s personal space. “We saved your children and your village – the least you can do is help me save him!”

“And we will, but not through means of alchemy!”

“Alchemy is all that can help him now!”

Freudenthal shook his head. “The answer is still no.”

“Do you really think that an alchemist is someone we would willingly turn to?” she shouted. “We fear them just as much as you do!” Mayor Freudenthal bristled, and Gretel stepped forward again. “Please,” she said, “I’m begging you.”

Casting a wary glance behind her, the mayor set his mouth in a grim line and gazed at her pityingly. “I’m sorry.”

As he turned away, Gretel began to panic. “No, you have to take us to him, please!” The sound of metal hitting stone rang out behind her, quickly followed by a heavy thud and a series of gasps from the onlookers. She whirled round, heart speeding as she took in the sight of her brother on the ground. “Hansel!” Ignoring the way the crowd retreated like skittish sheep, she practically fell to her knees next to him, quickly ensuring he was still alive before trying to rouse him – to no avail. Desperate, Gretel turned to the fast-disappearing villagers, pleading like she’d never done before. She didn’t understand; each face she locked onto was twisted with pity, sorrow, _fear_. Hansel had helped save their loved ones, their homes, and they weren’t willing to do this tiny favour in return? Why? _Why_?

Gretel stopped calling for help once she realised the courtyard was more or less empty, and those that remained turned their backs to her. As tears pricked her eyes, she shifted positions to cradle her brother’s head in her lap, trying again to wake him. His skin was damp and hot to touch, his shirt evidently sticking to his chest. The bottom of it was stained a deep, mottled red colour, suggesting her bandage was now useless as the ‘minor’ cut continued to bleed. He needed stitches, he needed a cool compress… he needed antidote. And these ungrateful assholes wouldn’t help her get it to him.

The world slowed to a stop as the sudden truth stole her breath away: Hansel was dying.

“Miss Gretel?”

Blinking, Gretel jerked her head up at the small girl watching them with wide, worried eyes. She was familiar – one of the children they’d rescued? Her hair was a pale honey colour that looked warm against the rosy shade of her cheeks, and she clutched a worn-out blanket around her shoulders. She looked so fragile that Gretel briefly wondered how she’d made it out of danger unharmed. “Do you want me to take you to Mr Özil?”

As Gretel processed what the little girl was saying, she watched distantly as two men ran up behind her, one of them resting his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “We’ll help,” he said, and Gretel stared at him. “The pair of you saved my little girl,” he explained. “This is the least I can do to repay you.”

Momentarily stunned by the fact that someone was actually helping her, that her brother might yet be saved, Gretel was soon on her feet and following the small child through the village whilst her father and his friend lifted Hansel up between them, carrying him to the inn where they were staying. Though her instinct was to stay by his side, she set her mind to focus on her current task, knowing that this was going to save his life and not her fretting like a confused old lady. She made a mental reminder to hold this family in her memory if everything turned out alright.

***

Five long minutes later, Gretel and the young girl were stood at the very edge of the village facing an old, near-decrepit cottage. Thin smoke flowed out from the chimney on top of the snow-damaged thatched roof, signalling the presence of Joachim Özil; an amber light shone through the window, and when her small guide knocked on the door a shadow passed over it disturbingly. Gretel tensed automatically – the place was smothered in a restless air, and she understood why the villagers were reluctant to talk to this man. It was only for Hansel’s sake that she remained where she was.

“Betty!” a warm voice cried as the old door opened. “You’re back!”

“Hello Mr Özil!” Betty chimed, reaching up to accept the alchemist’s embrace. When he straightened up, Gretel cast her gaze over him in a brief analysis. Probably a year or two older than Hansel, he was dressed like any other man: boots, dark trousers, white shirt under a tan waistcoat that hung unbuttoned off his frame. His skin was somewhat grimy, giving him an old, weather-beaten look that reminded her painfully of her father, but when he turned to acknowledge her presence she decided his eyes were too bright, too wild, to make him a normal man. His hair was very dark, probably as dirt-stained as his skin, but he graced her with a warm smile, and the way Betty kept close to him convinced her he wasn’t going to show her any hostility. Overall, he wasn’t a threat.

“Who’s your friend, Betty?” Gretel swallowed. He assumed she was Betty’s friend. Was she?

“This is Miss Gretel,” Betty told him sweetly. “She needs your help.”

“Does she?” His lips quirked, and a twinkle coloured his eyes.

Gretel bristled. “You know who I am.” Joachim said nothing, instead turning back to the little girl hovering by his leg.

“Thank you for bringing Miss Gretel here, Betty,” he said gently. “Shouldn’t you be heading home now? Your mother will want to be with you, I think.”

“Okay. Bye, Mr Özil.” Betty stopped next to Gretel as she ran from Joachim’s door, looking up at her with a solemn expression. “I hope Mr Hansel gets better, Miss Gretel.” She chewed her lip. “Will you tell him I said thank you for saving me?”

Mildly surprised, Gretel nodded. “Of course.” Betty grinned, then left, her feet crunching through the snow as she ran back to her home. Alone with the alchemist, Gretel fixed him with a steely gaze, resisting the urge to leave as he approached her slowly.

“Thank you for saving the children,” he startled her by saying. “The village was bleak without them.” He stopped before her, at least an arms length away, and waited for her to speak.

“I need your help,” she said sharply.

He chuckled. “I gathered that much from Betty,” he told her. “What do you need? Tracking solutions? Warding amulets? A potion of some sort?”

“Antidote.”

Joachim raised his eyebrows, narrowing his eyes as he worked it out. “Your brother,” he stated, and she nodded. His expression turned grim as he spun on his heel and led her back to the house. “What kind of symptoms is he showing?”

Keeping close to his heels, Gretel told him all she knew. “It looked like a minor flesh wound at first, bleeding but not badly. Five minutes later and he could barely walk; his blood had thinned and acquired a green tint. He has a temperature, possibly a fever, and he collapsed not that long ago.” Her voice hadn’t wavered – if anything, she began to grow impatient as Joachim headed for his shelves, rooting around for various ingredients and tucking them into a cotton pouch slung over his shoulder.

“Did he mention anything else?” he was asking. “Altered hearing, wavering vision, textures not feeling right?”

“Just that he felt tired, but Hansel is… prideful.”

Joachim scoffed. “Pride will get him killed.”

“My brother is good at his job, alchemist. He is not stupid, and he knows he has me to watch his back. He hasn’t let me down since we began this profession, and is the only person I trust with my life.” Gretel would never hesitate to defend her brother, especially to a man who toyed with magic so recklessly. Pausing in his rummaging, said alchemist turned to flash her a grin over his shoulder, and she wondered what he was grinning about. She was about to snap at him again when he started to speak quite rapidly.

“If all this has happened within one hour, then there is a good chance I can save him. You are both staying at the inn, no? I can assemble the antidote there, that’s no problem. You’ll need to help me when we arrive, take a few things from the kitchens – some water, and any cloth they can spare, candles too. Keeping him cool is essential, as is restricting the blood flow; if this poison is what I think it is, then it will target the organs –”

“And if it is not?” Gretel interrupted, closing the door behind them. He had grabbed a great-coat whilst he was speaking, holding the pouch close to his side as he guided her into the cold again.

His answer was straight-forward: “Then I return for the correct ingredients after making my own assessment of his condition.” Seeing she was about to protest, he held up a hand. “You want your brother to live, so you will trust me,” he told her. If it hadn’t been true, she would have taken that as an order and ignored it.

Darkness had swept in quickly through the village. Candles from houses provided dim lighting as they made their way between them, feet light on snow-covered back alleys (Joachim had insisted on taking the back alleys, assuring Gretel it would take no more time than going through the main street). Once inside the inn, Gretel told him which room they were in and made her way down to the kitchens to find water and cloth like he had asked her to. Nobody was around, but due to their treatment of her earlier she held no qualms about helping herself to their supplies. Hansel was her priority anyway, not them, and it was a relief to see that Betty’s father had stayed with him when she finally burst into their attic room.

“Tear the cloth,” Joachim instructed without looking up. He had set himself on a stool, pouch open at his feet and ingredients spread out. Her breath hitched slightly at the sight of magic being prepared in front of her, but she steeled herself and tore a strip off the sheet she had acquired from the kitchen (why they kept linen in the kitchen, she didn’t know). “Keep him cool,” the alchemist said, striking a match and dropping it into a pestle on his lap.

Manoeuvring herself so that Hansel’s head rested on her crossed legs, Gretel quietly thanked Betty’s father on his way out and busied herself wiping the sweat off her brother’s brow. She soaked the strip in the water she’d brought up, listening to the sounds of Joachim muttering to himself and adding bits and pieces to the pestle at irregular intervals. Hansel twitched beneath her hands, and she watched his eyes roll under closed eyelids. “How long is this going to take?” she muttered.

Something hissed and smoke billowed from the small bowl. “Three more minutes,” he murmured, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Gretel began to count.

***

Hansel was confused – strange memories plagued his mind. For some reason, he remembered being twenty-one, remembered killing a witch with his sister only to find out she had hurt him some way; there was snow, and trees, and Gretel pulling him, then people cheering, Gretel’s hand leaving his wrist, and the world tipping sideways.

But Hansel wasn’t twenty-one. He wasn’t even twelve, and he’d be lucky to live that long at this rate. All he knew, all he had known for some time now, was the cage he had been crammed into. It was too small – he was bent double inside it, cheek resting on his knees, palms flat either side of him as he tried to stretch his screaming muscles. It was a familiar pain now, but one that never dulled: from the top of his neck, down the entire of his back, and in his calves. He longed to be able to move, to be able to run beyond the bars and the dank basement walls – hell, even the candy-coated walls of the cottage – and enjoy the outdoors again, relish in the eternal space of nature. He would take Gretel with him, too. They would run and run, and never again be slaves. Perhaps they could find their father – 

His breath hitched, and suddenly Hansel couldn’t breathe. His chest was too restricted, pressed against his thighs in this way, and for one moment he was blinded with fear. Reaching out either side of him and gripping the bars, he forced himself to relax, to concentrate on drawing steady breaths, closing his eyes until he almost lulled himself to sleep. He felt inexplicably warm, as if someone had lit a fire next to his prison. Frowning, he opened his eyes. Was it Gretel?

No. No, it was not Gretel, but it was fire. It was many fires. It was an _oven_ , and it roared at him from the outside like a demon from Hell itself. The air around him morphed and danced, reaching out to scratch his eyeballs and scorch his skin. Terrified, he closed his eyes, wrapping an arm around his head as best he could. It felt like he was inside it, burning and choking and unable to do anything because he’d gotten himself into this mess, dragged Gretel along with him, all for some stupid candy! Their father would never know, but the knowledge that he was leaving Gretel defenceless destroyed him.

As he cowered there, waiting for the fires to engulf him completely, Hansel became aware that the oven’s roaring was receding. He listened as the noise dimmed gradually, dropping his arm slowly to find that the glaring orange had become a smooth white. He sat up – the cage had gone, too – and blinked. He was totally surrounded by this whiteness, feeling perfectly healthy and calm, and as he relaxed further he lay down and closed his eyes. There was a word to describe what he was experiencing, he knew it – it itched at the back of his mind, and he frowned.

Something brushed against his cheek, and the sensation was wonderful: it was soft, like a pure cotton blanket, and gentle. He leant into it, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of safety and happiness as it covered him head to toe. He could hear a distant melody, honeyed and tinkling, lulling him into even further bliss, and as the urge to sleep became too great to ignore, Hansel finally labelled the experience.

***

“Mother?”

Gretel stilled. Her eyes flicked to Joachim, who remained focused on his pestle. Hansel murmured something again, incomprehensibly, and she frowned. Sure that he was settled again (or as settled as he could be in this state), she pressed the damp cloth back against his forehead. “How much longer?” she grit out.

The alchemist surprised her by saying “It’s ready,” and abandoning his stool. He knelt by the bed, pestle in hand, and dipped his fingers into the bowl. When he reached for Hansel’s wound, his fingers were coated in a moss-green slime, one he proceeded to rub into the still bleeding cut. A faint noise of pain escaped her brother’s lips, one that didn’t go unnoticed by either hunter or alchemist, and Joachim sent Gretel a reassuring look. “It will help,” he assured her, then spoke through his work. “This is a fast-working antidote, so I’m afraid comfort isn’t really included. It doesn’t need to go through the bloodstream to reach the organs – hence your brother may experience some discomfort for a while – but it will prevent the poison from doing any damage. Eventually, his body will cleanse his blood itself.”

Gretel nodded, moving the cloth down to Hansel’s chest. She was concerned by how heavy his breathing had come, not to mention the fact that he was dreaming of their mother. Hansel hadn’t allowed himself the luxury since they escaped the candy house twelve years ago, but one dose of poison and there she was. She swallowed hard. If he remembered it (which she doubted he would), she would have to ask him about it. Gretel’s memories of their mother were few; it would be nice to hear him speak of her again, like he had done before their step-mother twisted their father’s mind.

A sigh off to her side brought her mind back to the present, and Gretel watched as Joachim sat back on his haunches. He looked weary, wiping his forehead on the back of his sleeve and stretching until the bones in his back popped. It occurred to her then that he had no real motive for helping them – true, he knew who they were, but the rest of the villagers did, and only a tiny handful of them had had the heart to approach her. “Why did you do this?” she asked, not unkindly, but her voice was heavy with curiosity.

He looked at her in an amused way. She didn’t like it. “Because you saved the children,” he replied, “and it was obvious that no-one else was helping you.” She quirked an eyebrow, and he rolled his eyes. “You are a hunter. I am an alchemist. You and your brother are slowly putting my kind out of business, but that doesn’t mean that what you do isn’t important.” His bright eyes flicked between them, the smile never leaving his lips. “You mean a lot to each other. You’re a team. Hunters like you don’t work well on your own - or with others.”

“How could you have known all of that?” she snapped. His observations unnerved her. What if witches could read the same things?

Joachim chuckled, forcing himself onto his feet. “Hansel and Gretel. One is never mentioned without the other – so, when you turned up alone at my house, following one of the only children who trusts me, I sensed something was wrong.”

She frowned at his reference to Betty. “What do you mean, ‘one of the only children who trusts me’? You’ve thanked me for saving all the children.”

He nodded. “The children are warned by their parents not to approach me. I respect their wishes, and so I stay from the village more often than not. However, they all have a strong presence.” His smile turned gentle, and fondness settling in his eyes. “There is no sound so heart-warming as the sound of laughing children,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Gretel looked away. She couldn’t. Joachim sighed loudly, bending over to rearrange his pouch. “You should see to stitching the wound as soon as possible,” he said as he moved. “The antidote should hold the bleeding for a bit, but –”

“I don’t need you to lecture me on medical attention,” she interrupted curtly. As she expected, Joachim laughed.

“Of course, how foolish of me!” He turned to her, grinning again, and nodded once. “I trust he’ll make a full recovery in your care. Nevertheless, take care. I wish you well in your future activities.”

“Wait – what’s this stuff called?”

The alchemist smirked. “Abracadabra.”

Gretel watched silently as he left the room without a backwards glance. He let the door swing shut behind him, taking a lot of sound with him as his footsteps faded down the stairs. She was surprised by how quickly she noticed his absence, and distracted herself by seeing to Hansel’s wound. It was like the alchemist had said: there was decreased blood flow, and even if the edges of the cut were still a little green she could see it looked less inflamed than it had when she’d brought Joachim back. Quickly sewing her brother’s side back together, Gretel found there was little else left for her to do afterwards; she eventually settled for tending to their weapons, partly because they needed seeing to and partly because she was worried what her emotions would do if they weren’t kept under wraps.

***

Hansel was having trouble discerning between reality and dream. The only reason he knew this was because of the ‘blackouts’ he kept appearing to have, moments where all he would be seeing was darkness, yet he would hear voices: Gretel’s and others’, ranging from young female to older male. He couldn’t translate what they were saying, exactly, but something told him they were talking about him. The intense discomfort he felt might also be involved somehow, but maybe feeling like a furnace was causing these ‘blackouts’ – if they were at all blackouts. When he was (or wasn’t) awake, it was the usual routine: hunt witches, fight witches, save children. Okay, so the fights were quicker and less painful than he remembered, and there weren’t as many children, and perhaps it was a little strange how one minute he and his sister were in a forest, the next they were up a mountain, then he was talking to a wolf, for Christ’s sake – but it was their job to deal with strange. He expected nothing less from witches.

So when, during one blackout, he registered the fact that he might be on something resembling bed with someone wiping something cold on his chest, he came up with the first logical possibility: he was being prepared for a sacrifice; and holy shit, what if the same thing was happening to Gretel? It was like being nine all over again, but worse because he couldn’t see a damn thing! However, he could feel his arms…

Hansel lay in silence, taking note of where and how the wet thing was dragged across his body (it did feel nice), and roughly guessed where his captor was sitting. Then, as he sensed the witch move over him, he struck out with his right arm – and gods, what had happened to his side to make it burn like that? – feeling grim satisfaction when his assailant grunted at the blow. His next move was to roll away, but the pain in his side and the colossal wave of nausea made him stop rather suddenly. Hands pushed at his shoulders, forcing him back against the damp sheets (huh, maybe it was a bed) whilst another pair gripped his legs. Great, so there were two of them. Letting instinct kick in, Hansel wriggled and writhed, doing anything to shake off the bitches who had him pinned – 

“Hansel, be still,” a voice murmured in his ear. 

He paused. That sounded like… No, they wouldn’t trick him. “Get off,” he managed to say, noting as he did so the dryness of his mouth and throat alongside the thickness of his tongue.

“You’re not well, Hansel,” the Gretel-voice said. “A witch poisoned you.”

“Lying…” It hadn’t come out as loud or as strong as he intended, but at least they knew they weren’t fooling him.

The air shifted as someone moved above him. “Would it hurt to knock him out?”

“If you cannot calm him, then yes. But Gretel, it is only a last resort – you must use words if you want him to heal fully.” Heal? And that didn’t sound like a witch… Witches were women.

“For God’s sake Hansel, stop struggling! You’re not in danger – you’re safe, you’re with me!”

One pair of hands wasn’t a witch, and the Gretel-voice knew what he was thinking… Or was it all a trick? “Then why’re you holding me down?” he slurred.

He heard a scoff. “Because I am not having you pull these stitches through your own idiocy – not after last time!”

Hansel stopped. Only his sister would speak to him like that. And stitches? That would explain the pain in his side… He frowned, suddenly wishing for the feel of the wet cloth again. “Gret?” he whispered.

The hands on his legs disappeared, and one of the hands at his shoulder moved to press the wet cloth against his cheek. Unthinking, he leant into the material, feeling it trickle down the side of his face and almost into his ear. “I’m here, Hans.”

Gretel was here. It was her, he knew it. Who else would treat him with such kindness if he was, as she claimed, ill? Feeling much more relaxed as her fingers worked through his hair, Hansel was unresisting as he slipped into sleep once again.

***

Whatever Joachim had said since first leaving the witch hunters in the inn, the effects had been remarkably quick. Mayor Freudenthal dropped by to offer his apologies (not that Gretel accepted them); most, if not all, of the children they’d rescued came by with thank-you presents of some sort, and Betty had made healing charms for both of them. Whether or not they actually healed anything Gretel was doubtful, and she asked Joachim as much when he appeared again three days after helping her.

The alchemist laughed. “No, they’re not actual healing charms, I’m afraid,” he told her. “They might help you sleep better, though.”

Gretel snorted. “Hansel needs no help with that on a good day.”

“If I hadn’t witnessed his ‘episode’ three days ago, I’d agree with you.” He picked up a crossbow bolt, twirling it absently between his fingers. “Any trouble since then?”

She shook her head. “His fever broke not long after. I expected him to wake the other day, but…”

“That’ll be the antidote. It takes slightly longer to leave the system. A safety precaution, if you like.”

“I see.” She scowled at him. “Will you put that down?”

Joachim smirked, but replaced the bolt. “It’s an impressive arsenal,” he commented. “Are they enchanted?”

“What?”

He gestured at their weapons. “The bolts, the bullets – you could enchant them, you know.”

“And why would we want to do that?”

“Just in case.” When she raised an eyebrow, he elaborated. “Say if you missed a shot, and it clipped your… ‘target’ instead of hitting the mark. Having enchanted weaponry would make up for that mistake. You could leave them stunned, shock them, freeze them, or even poison them yourselves.”

“You’re assuming we miss,” Gretel said shortly.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh no, I’m sure you two rarely let a witch slip through your fingers!”

“Then why are you making the suggestion? You know how we feel about magic, and enchanting our weapons would mean relying on you. You’ve said it yourself: we work as a team, with only each other. It would be a waste of supplies, too, so why –”

“Because he wants to turn us into hunter-alchemists.”

Gretel whipped round, watching as her brother moved to rub a hand down his face, stretching as he did so and wincing sharply when the stitches tugged. There was no stopping her smile as she leant over him, the first thing he saw as he blinked open his eyes. “You took your time,” she scolded.

Hansel groaned. “If you felt as bad as I did, you’d take your time too.”

“And how bad is ‘bad’?”

“Like a troll rolled over me.”

Gretel laughed as Joachim appeared on Hansel’s other side with some water, and between them they managed to get him in a position where he was comfortable enough to drink. When he was done, Hansel cast a questioning look at his sister. “This is the man who saved your life,” she said, and her brother’s eyebrows shot up. “Hansel, meet Joachim Özil, the town’s alchemist.”

“An alchemist?” Joachim nodded. “Well, that would explain a few things.”

“Your sister came to me for help.”

“You did?”

She shrugged. “No-one else could’ve saved you. The villagers certainly didn’t try.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

For the next few minutes, Gretel caught her brother up on everything that had happened in the last week. His memory was hazy, entangled as it was with strange, fever-induced dreams, but soon they had sorted out what was real and what wasn’t. Joachim slipped out halfway through their talk, and silence settled once they had discussed everything she thought he needed to know – until one topic she hadn’t breached came to the front of her mind. “You said some of your dreams were like twisted memories?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Did you dream of Mother?”

Had he been able to see himself, Hansel would probably have blamed his unconcealed surprise on the subsiding illness, but really, it was one of the few times her brother had been caught completely off-guard. He stared at her for a few beats, as if trying to work out if she’d actually said that, then answered with a sputtered “What?”

She looked down at the sheets, fiddling with a loose thread. “Before Joachim applied the antidote, you said ‘Mother’,” she explained. “I wondered if you could say why. That’s all.”

Hansel said nothing, mirroring his sister by fiddling with the edge of the wooden cup he was holding. When the silence had almost stretched into uncomfortable territory, he spoke. “I don’t remember what it feels like to be looked after by a mother when you’re sick,” he mumbled.

“But you do remember her?” Gretel asked, equally quiet. He nodded. “At least you have that, then.”

“I try not to,” he admitted.

She looked up. “Why?”

“Because you can’t.”

His answer stunned her. He said it as if it was obvious, like there couldn’t be any other reason for not thinking of their mother, their true mother, from time to time. If he’d said ‘because it’s too painful’, she would have understood. Schooling her features, she reigned in her emotions and said in a level tone, “I want you to remember for both of us. Not all the time, but perhaps in moments like these – just so she won’t be forgotten.”

Hansel smiled. It was small and sad, but it showed that he understood. “Alright.”

***

When Gretel was three, their father had let them both play in the forest surrounding their cottage. “Look after your sister, Hansel,” he had warned, and Hansel, eager to go outside and climb the trees, had hastily promised he would. So he felt quite guilty when she’d tried to follow him up onto a low branch without him realising until she was flat on her back some five feet below him. He had taken her home, accepted the punishment from his father, then run up to his room and cried because he’d been a bad brother. His mother had appeared later to call him down for dinner, and when he told her how bad he felt she had smiled, pulling him into her lap and giving him a long, tight hug.

“You’re not a bad brother,” she told him. “You’re just not used to being one yet. You’ll learn, Hansel. I think you’re going to be an amazing big brother, one that Gretel won’t want to ever say goodbye to.”

“Really?”

She kissed the top of his head. “Absolutely. Now, downstairs – dinner’s ready.”

As soon as he’d seen Gretel sat at the table, a bandage tied round her small head, Hansel had solemnly apologised to her before promising to never let anything hurt her again. Their parents had watched them, proud of their son’s heart and Hansel’s willingness to learn how to be a big brother. It was a hard promise to keep, but in time it would change to something more achievable.

***

“Think we’ll ever come back?” Gretel asked on the outskirts of the village.

Hansel looked back over his shoulder, squinting as the sun reflected off the snow. “To this place? Shouldn’t think so.”

Smirking as they turned to walk away, his sister teased, “Not even for some enchantments?”

He rolled his eyes. “Especially not for enchantments.” Gretel snickered. “Although, if we ever run out of antidote…”

Despite agreeing with him, she shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re going to alchemists, now.”

“Well, if it helps me keep my promise, I’m not really going to argue.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“What promise?”

He glanced at her quickly before setting his gaze on the road again. “To look after you, no matter what.”

Gretel was glad that the cold had already made her cheeks turn rosy. “Did you tell Father that?”

His reply was quiet, almost unheard. “No. I said it to Mother before she died.”

There had been times after the candy house when Gretel had wondered whether her brother cared about her anymore, if she hadn’t just become a burden he had to lug around with him. He had babied her for a long time, argued with her over petty things like who got the last piece of bread or who took the longest shift, and until now she’d always thought he was just relishing the opportunity to boss her about. Having heard about this promise, a promise she’d never known of, Gretel vowed never to doubt her brother’s love for her again – nor to leave it unreturned.


End file.
